


Sinner

by manic_intent



Category: John Wick (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Police, M/M, That AU where John becomes a cop after he retires, and Santino enters witness protection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 13:51:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19792207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: The Devil laughed as the sinner was shown into the room. “John Wick,” said Santino D’Antonio. He did not rise from his chair, where he sat loose-limbed like the emperor of everything he saw instead of the dead man that he was. “When I was first told that you’d become a cop, I thought it was a joke.”John sat in the bolted-down chair opposite Santino at the bolted-down table. He’d always found interrogation rooms strangely calming. One-way mirror, single exit, the world condensed down to him, another person, and a sparse box of a room. John liked simplicity. “Santino,” he said.





	Sinner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [keeping_truth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/keeping_truth/gifts).



> Fic for keeping_truth, prompt: John/Santino, witness protection. 
> 
> For this fic I was thinking at first about making John a cop, but then thought maybe that would be kinda boring by itself, so I thought maybe he could be both a cop and what he used to be.

The Devil laughed as the sinner was shown into the room. “John Wick,” said Santino D’Antonio. He did not rise from his chair, where he sat loose-limbed like the emperor of everything he saw instead of the dead man that he was. “When I was first told that you’d become a cop, I thought it was a joke.” 

John sat in the bolted-down chair opposite Santino at the bolted-down table. He’d always found interrogation rooms strangely calming. One-way mirror, single exit, the world condensed down to him, another person, and a sparse box of a room. John liked simplicity. “Santino,” he said. 

Santino smiled. He looked John over with a relish that he wasn’t bothering to hide, lingering over the details of John’s uniform. The cap, the collar, the ironed sleeves, the shields, the tie. Santino himself was as impeccable as John last remembered, folded neatly into a tailored charcoal suit that hugged his graceful hips. His beauty was as disorienting as ever. “Aren’t you going to read me my rights?” Santino purred. 

“Why are you really here?” John asked, trying not to look at the one-way mirror. Chief Henson was probably boring a hole through the back of John’s head with her eyes. 

“As I told your boss, I want to confess. Turn state evidence. In exchange for protection.” 

“Confess to what?” 

“What else?” Santino leaned forward, folding his fingers together over the table. “The Arrangement.” 

John stared at Santino, incredulous. “Why?” 

“Why not?” Santino pressed his palms together before his chest in a mockery of prayer. “I’ve had a change of heart. An attack of conscience. I’d like to come clean before I die.” 

He was full of shit. Santino wasn’t going to tell John the truth—not with eyes watching. John glanced at the mirror for a long moment and got up from the table, knocking at the door. As the duty officer let him out, John nearly walked right into Chief Henson. The Chief of Detectives was a black woman who only came up to John’s shoulder, but she had a jackhammer stare that could pin anyone to a wall in a shot. Beside her was a pale brunette woman in a suit, probably a Fed. 

“My office, now,” said Henson. She spun on her heel before John could say a word. They filed quietly into her office, Fed and all. 

Once the door was closed, John said, “He’s the real deal.” 

Henson sniffed loudly. She gestured at the Fed. “This is Agent Starling of the FBI.”

“Pleased,” said Starling. She swept John with a slow once-over. “You're an interesting man, Sergeant.” 

“Really?” John was a beat cop—he hadn't done anything more than the usual for the beat he walked. Petty homicides, robberies, small crimes—and a hell of a lot of neighbourhood peacekeeping. Talking to people. De-escalating situations. Turned out policing was a hard job if done properly. Far too many cops didn’t have the training or the drive to do better.

“I read up on you when Santino asked for you. All these years that you’ve been walking a beat, you’ve never fired a gun. Never killed anyone,” Starling said. "More curiously, you have no file from before you signed up with the police. You're a ghost." 

John looked to Henson for a cue, but she was inscrutable. “What d’you want?” he asked Starling.

“I know who Santino D’Antonio is,” Starling said, with a curl of her lips. “I know who his sister is, who his family is. I want to know if it’s true that he wants to turn state evidence about the Arrangement, or if this is some sort of elaborate game that he’s playing with his sister. I want to know why he asked for you instead of for a lawyer. The hell is going on?” 

“Don’t know,” John said. He folded his hands behind his back. 

Henson glanced between John and Starling and pursed her lips. “Starling, give me a moment with John.” Starling nodded, leaving the office in quick strides.

Once she was gone, John said, “There’s no point. Turning state evidence. The Arrangement’s unbreakable.” John knew that more than most. He’d tried to leave it once, and it had nearly killed him. He knew his grace from it was just a lie, a lie he now lived with little comfort. He was tired of it all. The Arrangement, the lie, the life he lived mechanically. John had been in a daze since Helen had died, and only habit had brought John back to work. Habit and his colleagues, who hadn’t been willing to leave him alone to his grief. 

“We’ve never been able to get anyone senior enough in the Arrangement to squeal on the High Table. Anyone willing to talk about the Arrangement to the authorities either changes their mind or doesn’t survive to see a trial,” Henson said. She jerked her chin back at the door. “Go back in there and talk to Santino. If he’s really willing to talk? Hell, our lives will get a lot more interesting. Especially yours.”

“Why?” John asked. 

Henson eyed him coolly. “Who d’you think I’m gonna trust to pull babysitting duty on an asset this dangerous?” 

“Ma’am—”

“I could guess what you were when I got you into the force, even if Helen didn't give me the details. I took a risk on you because I’d known Helen since high school and she asked me to give you a chance, God rest her soul. She said you wanted to make amends. You’ve paid back my trust all these years—you’re one of the best beat cops we’ve got. But this?” Henson gestured in the direction of the interrogation room. “This could change everything. We shouldn’t have to tolerate evil just because getting rid of it is gonna be hard. If you really wanna make a difference, John—this is it.”

“Can’t be done,” John said. He couldn’t even imagine it working. Even if Santino survived long enough to be useful in a trial.

Henson cocked her head. “You think Helen would be happy with that kinda answer?”

#

As safehouses went, the apartment wasn’t too bad. It was in a quiet residential area. Wasn’t a motel. Looked clean. John checked the rooms and the street before twitching the curtains closed. He was working backwards from what he knew. If he’d been sent to take Santino’s life he would’ve tried to use a high-powered rifle. Come through the door if he couldn’t get a good shot.

Santino was drinking wine on the couch with his feet propped up on a cushion, reading a book. He looked up as John drew close, his gaze travelling slowly down John’s body. “Seriously?” John said. The last they’d met, Santino had been just as playfully flirtatious. They’d been in the Continental, because Santino didn’t trust him, because John was desperate for a favour and was willing to make a deal with the Devil. 

“What?” Santino said, with a coy little wink. “I can’t resist a man in uniform.” 

“If you’re really willing to give evidence, you’re gonna be excommunicated. The High Table will call a hit on you.”

“I’ll be disappointed if they didn’t.” 

“Why?” John sat in the armchair, watching the windows and the door with his peripheral vision. “Why this?”

“Revenge.” Santino tipped his glass at John. “My father died. He willed his seat on the High Table to my sister. At first, I thought of trying to kill her. Using the marker you gave me, perhaps. But what would be the point? No one kills anyone on the High Table. The Adjudicators would sooner bury me alive before they’d let me take her place if I had her murdered.”

“So you’d rather burn it all down instead.” That made a brutal sort of insane logic.

“Or die trying. Either way, it’ll be more interesting than living the rest of my life under Gianna’s thumb.” Santino took another sip of his wine. “You should be grateful.”

“What?” 

“I’m giving you a chance at redemption.” Laughter sat all too easily in the Devil’s eyes. “Isn’t that what your late wife wanted for you when she made you join the police? You could’ve retired quietly with the money you have. Taken up flower arranging or bookbinding as a hobby. Instead, this. Yet you could work a hundred years as a beat cop and never make up for all the things you’ve done.”

“Ain’t about making up for what I’ve done,” John said before he could help himself. The truth twisted uneasily in the air, torn from him by the mockery in Santino’s tone. Santino set his glass and book aside, unwinding to his feet. John straightened up as he got close and stiffened as Santino climbed onto his lap. “The hell are you doing?” 

Santino caught John’s chin with oddly gentle fingers. “You weren’t making up for your guilt, I know. If you could be bothered by something as trite as a conscience, you wouldn’t have been as successful as you were. You were working off _her_ guilt. For being willing to love you, despite knowing what you are.” 

John tried to jerk back, but Santino’s hand clamped over his shoulder, pinning him to the back of the armchair. He leaned in, his plush lips inches from John’s mouth. “I could have used my marker to ask you for more,” Santino said. He stroked his thumb lightly over John’s throat. “I could own you. Even if it was for a short time. To own a reaper like you—” Santino made a low and husky sound against John’s cheek, a sound of hunger. “—well. Power has always turned me on.” 

“Why didn’t you?” John could feel Santino’s cock pressing against his thigh, an insistent weight that wasn’t unwelcome. He curled his hands over the armrests, trying not to breathe in the spicy musk of Santino’s cologne. 

“Because it would’ve been so very temporary,” Santino said, his fingertips tickling down John’s throat to his tie, curling it around his fist. “What would’ve been the point?” 

“Should you really be distracting me?” John asked. 

“Am I distracting you?” Santino feigned innocence. He smiled with the obnoxious confidence of a prince of the world John had tried to leave behind, of someone who had always gotten whatever he wanted. John should have pushed Santino away, turned his cheek. Yet when Santino leaned in for a kiss, John made a low, hoarse sound, and pulled the Devil closer.

#

With the death count mounting, John stopped using FBI safehouses and started using his own. He’d maintained a few off-the-books for years, purchased or acquired outside the Arrangement through shell companies. Just in case the Tarasovs never allowed him to get out, in case he had to go on the run with Helen. John hadn’t become the most successful wetworks specialist in the Arrangement out of sheer luck. He understood contingencies. They’d saved his life more than once.

John could only hope they’d be enough now. As he unbuckled the holsters from his hips, John glanced up sharply as Santino sauntered into his room. A day spent desperately on the run had left John scraped, bruised, and exhausted. Santino, on the other hand, looked fresh out of a magazine shoot, not a hair out of place.

“I didn’t think there were places like this outside of a bad movie,” Santino said. He glanced up as the chamber shook. A train was rumbling past, one steel coffin of many, threading its way through the bones of the city. 

“Shower works,” John said, hoping Santino would get the hint. He wasn’t in the mood for Santino’s particular brand of sheer assholery. He wanted to sleep.

“So I’ve heard.” Santino angled closer. His fingertips stroked lightly over John’s hips, helping him with the holsters, with the straps of the ill-fitting body armour over his uniform. John wouldn’t have worn the uniform if he didn’t have to—it was too visible—but it’d been necessary today when he’d had to move Santino across a dangerous part of the city. Nobody looked too closely at the back of a squad car. 

John let Santino help, lulled by the gentle surety of his touch. He’d missed having someone touch him like this, like he was nothing to be afraid of. To have someone pull him by the wrist into the shower, lukewarm as it was. They kissed under the spray and through prep, Santino’s husky laughter echoing in the tiny stall as the trains marked time. He laughed as John rolled on a condom, as John spread Santino with impatient fingers, a pistol within easy reach on the sink. John shoved Santino against discoloured tiles and slapped him on the ass, hard enough to leave a reddened mark. Santino gasped, momentarily outraged enough to shoot an angry glare over his shoulder. He groaned as John rubbed his cock against Santino’s pert ass, sliding against his slicked hole. 

“This what you want?” John whispered, curling his hand over Santino’s throat. “The reaper?” 

“Oh, John,” Santino said. He rubbed his ass against John’s cock, grinning slyly. “Can’t you tell what I want?” 

Mad bastard. When John smacked him on the other cheek, he moaned. John fucked him in vicious thrusts, bruising every part of Santino he could touch. His hips, his throat. Santino swallowed John’s lust and bloodlust both, demanding more. He was dragging the worst of John back into the light and breaking its chains, dragging off the muzzle, offering his throat. This was bait. John knew it to be so and took it anyway. As John ground in to the hilt and fucked his release into the slick heat of Santino’s body, John sank his teeth into unmarred flesh, pressing his tongue over Santino’s pulse. 

The Devil laughed and squirmed in his grip. He had been waiting for this, for John to give in. Santino pressed up against John’s teeth with a rumbling groan, twisting a hand possessively into John’s hair. He did not need to say more.

**Author's Note:**

> Refs:  
> https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2018/05/07/the-spy-who-came-home  
> \--  
> twitter: @manic_intent  
> about my writing etc: manic-intent.tumblr.com  
> 


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